


Bucci Gang Di Passione

by fremen_wali



Category: Golden Wind - Fandom, Vento Aureo - Fandom, ジョジョの奇妙な冒険 | JoJo no Kimyou na Bouken | JoJo's Bizarre Adventure
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Between Episodes, Dirty Talk, Eating Disorders, Food Issues, Fugo trusts his boss, Gen, Hoarding Behavior, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Intimidation, Mista joins the crew, Parental Bruno Buccellati, Polpo's Stand Test, Pre-Canon, Pre-Giorno, Stupid Teenagers, Teasing, bucci gang - Freeform, could be canon compliant
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-09
Updated: 2020-10-16
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:55:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26906218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fremen_wali/pseuds/fremen_wali
Summary: A collection of small headcanons I have about each member of the Passione gang, particularly Mama Bruno's brood. Will add tags as I go for warnings and such.The team as it exists is Bruno, Fugo and Narancia. Abbachio will be picked up next, then Mista.**Please read tags**
Comments: 4
Kudos: 36





	1. Mini Fridge and Febreeze

“What’s that smell, Fugo?” Bucciarati asked as he entered the living room where Fugo was reading on the couch. His nose scrunched slightly as he sniffed the air, attempting to determine the source of the odor. The villa they were staying in was a safehouse, one of many that Bruno owned and that Passione kept for long stakeouts such as the one the small team was on. There was a stench, faint, but like wet dog in a hot car, or a backed up garbage disposal- you knew the smell was a combination of things, but weren't sure as to how the combination occurred. He took another step into the living room, looking around for clues and his eyes landing back on the black loveseat his right hand man was currently reading on.  


“I think it may be coming from one of the bedrooms,” Fugo replied, not looking up from his book. He had a determined look of concentration as he kept up with his personal studies. Bucciarati decided it wasn’t worth interrupting him when he was curious enough to investigate alone. He hummed acknowledgement at the young man, walking past the leather couch and facing the dimly lit hallway towards the bedrooms. The lamps from the living room cast Bucciarati’s long shadow on the wood floor in front of him, fading into the darkness. All the doors were shut, and the soles of Bucciarati’s shoes clicked as he walked towards the smell, which indeed was getting stronger. 

He stopped in front of the first door on the right of the hallway, lifting his hand and rapping twice with his knuckles. He paused, leaning in slightly to listen. There was no answer, and no light coming from underneath the door’s frame, so he twisted the knob and pushed the door open. 

Out of habit, he slid to the wall directly beside the door, craning his neck to check for threats on the other side of the door. The room was decidedly empty. Bucciarati flipped the light switch and was greeted with the messiest room he’d had the misfortune to see. The new kid, Narancia Ghirga, had not only dirty laundry carpeting the floor, but decorating every few inches were drink and snack packaging, some not completely empty. It was a miracle he didn’t see ants or roaches anywhere. The window across the room was open, curtains fluttering gently, and the breeze helped to soften the intense odor that emanated from the destruction. As Bucciarati moved carefully across the floor to shut the window-  _ Anyone could see you crawling in and out of that window _ , he thought to himself, annoyed- the stench of old food and decay became unbearable. Biting back a gasp, Bucciarati cleared his throat and slowly knelt to look underneath the teenager’s bed. What he saw shocked and disgusted him: a hoard of plastic containers and glass bowls with some sort of moldy cling wrap on top, each filled with food; leftovers from previous dinners they’d shared, mis-matched combinations of corner store junk food and stagnant liquid that vaguely smelled like the cream soda the boy was always buying. Looking around in horror, Bucciarati recognized the squid ink pasta he’d made last week!

_ This is unacceptable.  _ “This is unacceptable!” Bruno repeated his thought aloud to himself, aghast and more than a little confused that he hadn’t noticed this sneaky behavior from his newest recruit. And Fugo had suggested the bedrooms so nonchalantly- had he known and simply ignored it?

“Fugo!” Bucciarati raised his voice to call the young man into the room. He stood, dusting the knees of his white slacks off and straightening his jacket. Blonde hair came around the corner and Bucciarati leveled a stern look at Fugo. 

“Bucciarati, this smell is abhorrent,” Fugo commented unenthusiastically, his slightly raised eyebrows the only sign that he noticed anything different. 

Bucciarati shook his head as if to say  _ Yeah, I know _ , and held his arms out to present the room behind him as some horrific art display. 

“Pannacotta, did you know this was happening?”

“I suspected as much, but I made it very clear that Narancia isn’t allowed into my room, and I wouldn’t go into his.” Fugo replied, grimacing a little at being first-named by Bucciarati like he was a child in trouble. He looked around at the mess immediately at his feet- mostly clothing that needed to be washed, or burned, in his opinion. There wasn’t a laundry hamper in the room. Fugo had an extra he would bring to the new member later. He waited for Bucciarati to continue. 

“Do you happen to know where young Narancia is tonight?” the squad leader inquired. He felt a light headache coming on. They had to get the room under control, with or without the culprit. 

Fugo shook his head negatively. He seemed to be on the same brainwave as Bucciarati though, because he turned as if to exit, pointing a thumb over his shoulder out the door. 

“I have some cleaning supplies in my room, if you’d like me to grab them?” Fugo paused, waiting for permission to be dismissed. Bucciarati pursed his lips and exhaled through his nostrils. No time like the present, he supposed. 

“Yes, let’s get started,” he agreed, pleased at Fugo’s initiative to help. At that, Fugo was out the door, walking briskly to his room and closet. Bucciarati tucked an errant hair back into place and began moving the clothing on the floor into a large pile, clearing most of the wooden floor beneath. Fugo reappeared with trash bags, broom, dustpan, bleach, a bucket of water, and a few washcloths that were to be used as cleaning cloths. Bruno smiled and extended his arm, taking the broom and dustpan from the boy and beginning to sweep everything out from under the bed. Glass clinked and foil crinkled as it knocked into the other debris. The pair worked in relative silence for a while, methodically piling and removing stacks of garbage. 

“I told you where I found him, didn’t I?” Fugo asked suddenly, eyes still pointedly looking where he was working. 

Bruno perked up a bit in surprise, but kept his movements smooth as he worked. “I believe you did,” he replied. “In an alleyway behind Mr Lezzano’s bakery, correct?” He'd brought the young man to Libeccio with him, out of breath from trying to make the meeting on time, and flushed with nervousness as he requested spaghetti for his companion. Bucciarati took one look at this dark haired, bandaged and terrified child and offered his plate with a smile. He would never forget the look of gratitude Narancia had given him as he sat in the chair Fugo had offered him.  


Fugo nodded, then spoke again. 

“He was digging in the trash for food. When I asked him how old he was, I was shocked that he was only a year older than me- he was so skinny, and so bruised…” Fugo’s voice had begun to tighten. He furrowed his brow and scrubbed harder at the same piece of flooring as he explained. “I kept thinking how I was going to meet you, and I was going to be late because I stopped, but if you hadn’t found me how likely it was that I would have been in the same situation, if not in jail,” Fugo snorted derisively. He finally looked up and met Bruno’s eyes. 

Bruno pressed his lips into a thin hard line, understanding. He nodded silently, pausing in his cleaning. His fingers gripped the broom handle so tightly, the fiberglass was beginning to creak.  


“In my psychology studies, I read that food hoarding is a symptom of abuse, particularly if it began in childhood.”

Bucciarati flushed hot with shame. Of course. Narancia wasn’t deliberately trying to create a miniature biome under his bed, he was just acting out of habit to protect and hide any food that he thought might be taken away from him. He probably couldn’t smell the difference anymore, Bruno wondered sadly. 

“I will not reprimand him for the room’s condition,” Bucciarati assured Fugo, trying to lighten the serious look on his face. “We could even look into purchasing a mini-fridge for him to keep in his rooms, wherever we may be stationed.,” he suggested, one side of his mouth crooking up in a small smile. 

After a long second, Fugo broke his stare and stood up straight, returning his boss’s smile tenfold. 

“Thank you, Bucciarati,” he said. 

\----- ---- ---- ---- ----- ---- ---- ---- ----- ---- ---- ---- ----- ---- ---- ---- 

Bruno was sitting alone in the kitchen at the island bar, letting his glass of merlot breathe a bit before taking a luxurious sip. The night had gotten colder, and he pulled his silk robe around himself tightly. He heard a noise in the direction of the hallway, waiting for the sound of a door opening and closing harshly, and Fugo’s heavy steps moving across to Narancia’s room. After a brief pause and conversation he couldn’t quite pick out, Bruno heard Fugo yelling. 

“You’re damn right you should be grateful we didn’t decide to just toss all your shit in the dumpster!” Fugo admonished from the other man’s room. Bruno relaxed, smiling to himself as Fugo continued his rant while Narancia babbled in reply in the background. 

“Next time I smell mold again, you’re cleaning this whole house with a toothbrush!” Fugo threatened, his yelling serious, but not as noticeably violent as usual. 

Fugo left Narancia’s room, slamming his door shut for emphasis on his exit. He stood in the dark hallway for a moment, listening to the delighted sounds Narancia made in his newly cleaned bedroom. 

Bruno called out warmly to the young man from the kitchen.

“Buona notte, Fugo!”

Unseen to the older man, Fugo blushed crimson in the darkness at being overheard. He knew Bucciarati knew he was only yelling at Narancia for show and that if push came to shove, Fugo knew he would fight and die for his new friend. 

“Buona notte, boss,” Fugo called back, smiling gently as he re-entered his room. 


	2. Took it Too Far

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a little pre-Giorno funny time joke that I couldn't stop thinking about. Mista and Narancia notice how close the Goth Man is to Zipper Mom, and tease him. But oh how the turntables...
> 
> TW for dirty talk and secondhand embarrassment

Bucciarati stood at the entrance to their private room in Libeccio, speaking softly with Abbachio, who looked thoughtful and nodded in response. A meter or so away, seated next to each other at the round table and picking at the last of their dinners, Narancia and Mista curiously watched the pair. Across the table, reading a book he’d brought with him and nursing a glass of white wine, Fugo tried to ignore his friends. 

Mista giggled, pitching his voice lower in an attempt at Abbachio’s silky tone. He nudged Narancia and spoke quietly, as if voicing the older man’s thoughts. 

“I’m so boooored,” Mista drawled, rolling his eyes. “I wish I didn’t have to work so I could lay around in my vampire cape!” Mista chuckled at his own lame impression, but Narancia’s eyes lit up as he joined in.

“My name’s Abbachio and I’m in loooove with my boss!” Narancia declared, in an even worse imitation of the silver haired man, then nodded towards Bucciarati and began speaking for him as well, his tone becoming stern and clipped. “Ah, Abbachio, my sweet widdle puppy,” he said, cutting off his own joke with a wheezing laugh. Mista made a face that scrunched up his nose and eyebrows in disgust.

“Ugh, Narancia, don’t say that! But do you really think that Abbachio would be like,  _ the woman _ , in their relationship?” Mista asked, now genuinely curious. Narancia shrugged, but began his boss’s impersonation again as Bucciarati smiled at something Abbachio said at the doorway. 

“Dearest, why don’t we return to the house and have you get that lipstick smeared all over my co-” Narancia stuttered on the word, turning the barking laugh that squeezed out into a cough. Bucciarati and Abbachio looked towards the pair of teens at the noise, but at a slightly giddy wave from Mista, they resumed their conversation out of earshot. 

“Nara, wait,” Mista said quickly, tears coming to his eyes as he bit back his own laughter. Across the table, Fugo looked up at them and frowned. His mouth was set in a hard, grim line. 

“He’s definitely not the one doing the fucking, I don’t think Bucciarati would let his subordinate take control like that,” suggested Mista, wiggling his bushy eyebrows at Narancia’s steadily reddening face. “Abbachio probably gets all dressed up in lacy, girly things and begs Bucciarati to even  _ touch  _ his lonely cock while he’s gettin’ plowed!” 

Mista’s voice was no longer at a hushed, inside level, and Fugo cleared his throat loudly to warn him as Abbachio narrowed his eyes in suspicion and excused himself from Bucciarati. Bucchiarati looked towards the table with some interest, but seeing as nobody had been stabbed or shot at yet, decided to stay by the entrance to the lively restaurant and chat amiably with the host. 

Narancia was even worse, gasping and loudly exclaiming without noticing how close Abbachio was getting. Giddy tears slowly ran down his beet red cheeks as he tried to continue the game. 

Mista had noticed Fugo looking up and behind Mista’s chair, and felt the tingling feeling of being watched. 

“Narancia, shush,” Fugo said sternly, to no avail. 

“Abba- Abbachio prob’ly has a diary that he writes in every night, all of his fantasies!” Narancia couldn’t help it, laughing uproariously and slapping his hand on the table.

In less than a second, Abbachio had stepped to the tableside and gripped Narancia’s ear tightly between his thumb and forefinger, pulling upwards.

“What was that, you little shits?” the pale, menacing man hissed furiously. Abbachio held on to Narancia, but pointed his other index finger towards Mista, forcing his eyes to cross as he stared at Abbachio’s painted fingernail. 

“Hey there, Abbachio,” Mista greeted, only a faint tinge of regret seeping into his boisterous voice. “We were just playin’...”

“What’s the game?” demanded Abbachio, leaning in to stare into Mista’s eyes. “I want to play,” he challenged. Under his hand, Narancia was wiggling in his chair, trying to escape from his torment, but unfortunately couldn’t stop laughing. Fugo stood up sharply, intending to walk away, but Abbachio stopped him with a hiss, swinging the pointed finger at the blonde. 

“I had nothing to do with this,” Fugo stated, looking exhausted. Abbachio flicked his hand towards Fugo’s chair indicating he should sit back down anyway. After a moment, Fugo did, but wisely kept silent. 

“Now, Ghirga, you said something about my diary?” Abbachio released the boy’s ear, standing right next to his chair to prevent escape. As Narancia rubbed at his sore spot, he stopped giggling long enough to bravely look up at the older man and repeat his jest.

“Yeah, your secret sex fantasy diary! ‘Cause you’re in  _ love _ with the boss!” 

Mista was biting his bottom lip to keep from laughing again, his hands clasped tightly in his lap. Stupid, brave Narancia. It'll be a miracle if he got out of this alive.

Abbachio leaned back on the heels of his leather boots, sneering at the young teen. 

There was an incredibly pregnant pause before Abbachio spoke, his voice rumbling deeply out of his throat. 

“Oh you didn’t know? Bucciarati and I have been lovers for over a year now,” he replied, completely deadpan. Mista looked completely confused. Narancia’s eyes lit up in both amusement at the admission, and a feeling of terror beginning that made him think they might have gone too far this time. Fugo sighed knowingly.

“Oh yeah, we’ve fucked in every room in his house, the safehouse, the clubs Passione owns, this  _ restaurant _ ,” Abbachio intoned sarcastically. Narancia’s face screwed up in disgusted surprise, looking around the chairs at their usual table with horror. “He even uses Sticky Fingers to keep lube all zipped away inside him in case we need to bang out a quickie.” Abbachio was beginning to look amused, but Mista had had enough, whether it was true or not. 

“Hey, Abbachio,” Mista began, “let’s just drop it, yeah? It was a stupid joke and we won’t do it again, but  _ please _ ” he entreated, not above begging at this point, “I don’t want to think about you or the boss’s naked bodies.”

Abbachio pointedly ignored his request and went so far as to move his hands to his large, gold ‘A’ belt buckle, as if he was about to open his pants. “Let’s see if those hickeys have healed yet,” he mused aloud, now fully enjoying his torment. 

Fugo tried to stand up again and suddenly Moody Blues appeared, slamming a purple arm onto the tabletop, breaking the wine glass and spilling the last of the golden alcohol to soak into the white cloth beneath. Abbachio’s eyes snapped to Fugo as his Stand faded away, bearing a grin so foreboding and manic, that despite beginning to shudder, Fugo returned to his chair. 

The gang could hear Bucciarati’s voice again, coming closer to the table. Mista simultaneously prayed for his leader to interrupt this awkward tirade, and to simply cease to exist on this earthly plane. 

“Abba-” he tried again, but this time, Abbachio pivoted and put one of his carefully manicured hands heavily on Mista’s shoulder. 

“Oh but Mista, didn’t you want to know who the woman was in this relationship?” 

So he heard that. Oh shit, Mista thought, blanching at the question. 

“Nah, I’m good not knowing anything!” Mista threw up his hands as an offer of surrender. 

Bucciarati’s slim, white suit came into view, and the dark haired man frowned at the sight of an impending altercation in front of him. Abbachio looked up briefly to meet Bucciarati’s eyes, then looked straight back down to Mista. He moved his other hand to gently slide against the gunman’s tanned face, dragging fingernails against the young man’s jawline. 

“Abbachio?” Bucciarati inquired carefully from behind Mista’s chair. 

Abbachio smiled, but continued staring as he spoke in a husky voice to Mista, who looked like he might pass out from the intensity. 

“If you’re asking me whether or not I think about Bucciarati’s thick, heavy cock pushing deeper and  _ deeper _ \--” Abbachio was suddenly cut off.

“Abbachio! That’s enough!” Bucchiarati shouted, his harsh blue eyes cutting into the other man’s gold-lavender eyes, but Abbachio wasn’t quite finished. Mista was starting to get angry, attempting to stand up from under Abbachio’s hand on his shoulder, but the angle was all wrong and his wooden chair only managed to scoot backwards a bit. To his credit, Narancia was still blushing furiously but holding himself very still and quiet for once. 

Abbachio closed his eyes and made a pleased, humming sound and dramatically fluttered his eyelashes. “ _ Mmmm,  _ Bruno, please… touch me again,” Abbachio moaned as sexually as he could, rocking his hips back and forth as his other hand gripped Mista’s other shoulder, effectively trapping him. Mista cried out in protest.

“C’mon, man, get offa me!”

“Ohhhh,  _ Bruuuuno….” _

“I’m serious, I tried to apologize, but I’ll shoot both your kneecaps if you don’t quit,” Mista threatened. 

“I’m about to cu-cu-...”

“LEONE!” 

Bucciarati’s voice tore through the air with a rage the team rarely saw leveled at themselves. This was how their boss shouted in the middle of a fight, not standing in a  _ very nice _ restaurant surrounded by people who pretended not to know they were all mafiosos. Everyone, including Abbachio, straightened up immediately, holding at attention, all traces of mirth completely wiped off their faces. 

Bucciarati looked furious, baffled at the situation, and worst of all, embarrassed of his own crew. “Get your shit together. We have a mission from Polpo in the morning. You want to behave like children? Fine, I’ll treat you like children.” Bucciarati, holding his clenched fists at his waist, sharply turned and strode towards the exit. “Find your own way home!” he declared, shoving the restaurant’s door open and disappearing into the street. 

The four held frozen at the table for a long while, contemplating exactly what made this whole thing happen. Abbachio roughly cleared his throat, a faint hint of a blush peeking through his porcelain makeup. 

Narancia finally breathed a long exhale in relief and chuckled one final time. He lifted his left foot up to kick gently at Abbachio’s ass, knocking him forward an inch. “Daddy’s mad at you,” he teased. His delight was short lived however, as Abbachio flung his right hand behind him to smack Narancia’s cheek with the back of his knuckles. “Ow!”

“Shut up.” Abbachio adjusted his jacket and made his exit, ignoring the three left behind at the table. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So continuing my collection of headcanons,
> 
> Lemme know if you laughed. At all. Because I have a sneaky feeling I'm one who would pull this kinda shit.
> 
> Please also consider checking out my first JJBA fic "Diamonds Shattered". Thanks for reading!


	3. A New Recruit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Guido Mista was in trouble, and didn't really see a way out, until a strange man in a white suit came to visit him in jail.  
> Bucciarati is putting his team together, and he sees a lot of spark in the gunman.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this might be a bit of a boring, fill-in-the-gaps kind of story, but I just love Mista and his immediate and obvious respect for Bruno. I was just thinking what they might have talked about before he took the gig. 
> 
> **please suspend the rules of who can view Stands/Stand activity, because I really just needed a wall unzipped and some stones flapped over like a ledge.**
> 
> Kudos and comments are appreciated!   
> Tbh, I'm just really happy to be so enthralled with the JJBA fandom and it's making me WANT to write again <3

The jail cell he was in was cold, despite Mista’s long-sleeved sweater… that he’d cut into a crop top because he wanted to show off his abs. He sighed, shaking his head and letting it fall back to the stone wall with a  _ thump _ . His public defender told him after the arraignment hearing that the self-defense plea didn’t fly, and his lackadaisical attitude in court only increased the judge’s disbelief. He’d been sentenced to 30 years at the prison in Poggioreale. Possibility of parole in 15 on good behavior. 

Mista sighed heavily, closing his eyes. Waiting for the next prison transfer bus wasn’t exactly what he’d wanted his summer to look like. He thought about his mother, his sisters and how disappointed they’d be to see him here. Not like he’d been writing letters every week anyway. He wondered when, if ever, they ever found out what had happened to him. 

He heard a clanking sound and a heavy door opening. Mista didn’t open his eyes or raise his head up, instead crossing his arms over his chest. It was about time for the guards to bring him food, but surprisingly, he wasn’t hungry for once. Footsteps echoed down the hallway of cells, getting closer. The sound of the soles softly moving his way didn’t sound like the steel-toed boots the cops all wore. Mista peeked an eye out and saw a man, not too much older than himself, wearing a white suit with golden zipper motifs all over. The suit was speckled and open at the chest, revealing what looked to be like a lacy undershirt. He had a razor sharp bob cut and his black hair was pinned back in gold barrettes. He had an intense set to his eyebrows, piercing blue eyes meeting Mista’s.

Mista sat up fully, staring back at the stranger. 

“Guido Mista,” the man intoned, looking at him like a carefully caught and pinned specimen. Mista felt like this man could unravel him without saying a word. 

“Maybe,” Mista said, kicking himself internally for not having a better answer. This guy was definitely not your average citizen, but he didn’t come in guns blazing, so Mista found himself intrigued. He turned his body to better face the other man, one foot on the ground, the other planted like a challenge on the bench he sat on. 

“My name is Bruno Bucciarati,” the man introduced himself, “and I’d like to talk to you about why you’re in this predicament.” Bucciarati looked like a model, Mista thought, classically pretty and an intoxicating gaze, but within those eyes was something more. He looked like a man who when he told you to jump, you'd immediately ask 'how high?'. Mista did think it was a little funny though, speaking so formally to someone like him- a street kid charged with multiple homicide. 

Mista chuckled, slapping a hand on his knee. “‘Predicament’ is a much nicer way to put it,” he admitted. “You don’t look like someone who would work with those thugs though, so who are you?” The men he'd killed weren't smart enough to be in any kind of gang, just some shitty, abusive bastards that didn't deserve to walk the earth. This man definitely came here with a purpose, with knowledge of who Mista was, or at least what he'd done. This man had _connections._

Bucciarati stepped closer to the bars of the cell, casting his eyes around the plain, dingy room before looking back at Mista. He reached into his suit jacket and pulled out a pistol- an antique, by the look of it: short barrelled with a swing-out style cylinder. Mista narrowed his heavy brows and inhaled sharply through his nostrils at the sight of the weapon. He could see six bullets in the cylinder chamber, and stood up sharply when Bucciarati spun it into place and cocked the gun. 

“What the fuck do you want, man?” Mista asked, standing defensively, even though there was nothing to hide behind but the bench and a toilet in the cell. 

Bucciarati smirked, turning the gun to offer Mista the handle of the pistol. 

When Mista didn’t immediately go for it, Bucciarati took another step and put his arm through the bars, holding the gun aloft. “I’d like to know if the rumors about your sharpshooting is true.” 

Mista was incredibly relieved, but didn’t let it show on his face. He took the proffered weapon and instantly liked its weight in his palm. Solid metal, cool to the touch, and he could smell the faint scent of lubricating oil- recently cleaned and polished. Nothing looked wrong with the piece, and although he’d shot similar weapons, he could tell fine craftsmanship when he saw it. The metal was painted a rich purple, and it made his hands look even tanner holding it. The pistol was light, but all its parts moved without issue and the sights were perfectly aligned. 

Bucciarati, satisfied with Mista’s inspection, moved away from the bars to the wall opposite the cell. With his back to the cell, Mista couldn’t see what Bucciarati did, but there was an odd zipping sound and suddenly there were five empty glass bottles balanced on the lip of a… folded piece of the wall? There was an empty space where black and purple swirled around, a gaping maw surrounded by impossibly large, golden zipper teeth. Mista wasn’t exactly sure what he was looking at, but if anything, this made him want to talk to this Bucciarati more. 

Bucciarati stepped to the side of his makeshift shooting gallery, one hip cocked to the side as he gave Mista a challenging look. He put his hand out, gesturing towards the display as an invitation to go ahead.   


Mista nodded, stepped backwards until his ass bumped the wall at the opposite end of the cell. He raised the gun in his right hand, looked down the sight and with no hesitation, no change at all in his stoic, nearly bored look, fired five times through the bars and the bottles shattered into the void of infinite purple. Bucciarati raised an eyebrow. 

“There’s one left,” he stated obviously, looking to the gunman for an explanation. 

“Throw it,” suggested Mista, a small smile curling his full lips. “Really make it spin.” He indicated with the tip of the gun in the air a loop-de-loop pattern ending to his right, past the perimeter of his cell. Bucciarati gripped the neck of the bottle between his thumb and forefinger, and with a flick of the wrist, sent the bottle hurtling through the air. Mista’s eyes tracked it and after three full rotations, fired at a diagonal through the cell and grinned fully when the bottle’s glass split and shattered at the bullet connecting. 

He spun the empty pistol on his finger through the trigger guard, sauntering towards the front of the cell until he could rest his elbows on the bars. He held the gun loosely in his hand and gave it, and then Bucciarati a look that said  _ alright, I’ll bite.  _

“What happened that night, to get you arrested? I've seen the official reports, but those are frequently altered, you understand,” Bucciarati asked again. He had the most patient look to his face, Mista thought. Like he’d be willing to stand and talk with him all night, if necessary. He looked kind, Mista decided. 

“I was just out of a late show at a theater, walking along when I see this shitty little car and hear noises like someone was fighting. I would’ve just left them to their business, until I saw it was a big guy beating the shit out of a woman laying in the backseat. She didn’t look too good, and there’s just no reason to hit a lady, so I pulled him out of the car and punched him to get him to stop. His goons come to back him up and they’ve all got guns.” Mista paused, looking deeply into the other man’s eyes, searching for understanding. 

“They started shooting. Point blank range. I couldn’t count the shots, but it was like my body just… knew what to do. I moved, stepped to the right, to the left, closer even, and none of their bullets hit me. Mio Dio! They emptied their chambers and one of them dropped his gun. They looked terrified. I came even closer, snatched up the gun, and began reloading it from the dropped bullets.”

He hadn’t broken eye contact once, and Bucciarati’s face was set into a neutral, stoic look. 

“I shot them all. One bullet each to the head. They dropped like sacks of flour. I was about to check on the woman, but the gunfire meant some passerby had called the police. They came and got me, and now I’m here,” Mista finished with a shrug. Nobody had believed him when he described the miracle that had occurred, and he had made some kind of peace with his sentence. There was really no harm in telling someone else. 

"Do you regret killing them?" Bucciarati asked plainly. Mista didn't hesitate, simply shook his head and answered.

"Not for one second."

Bucciarati didn’t respond to Mista at all, but turned and took a cell phone out of another pocket in his suit jacket. He pressed a button and a speed-dial number lit up the screen. The phone rang once, twice, and there was a deep voice on the other line, too muffled for Mista to hear. 

“Leave a message with Polpo’s guards that he will have visitors soon. Tell him I’ve found someone with potential.” After a couple affirmative hums to the other person, Bucciarati ended the call and slid the phone back into his jacket before turning to Mista with a smile. “Guido Mista, I’m putting a team together, and I’d like you to be on it.”

“You’re Mafia, right?” Mista replied, mostly rhetorically. He’d definitely heard the name Polpo before- some crazy Capo for the Passione organization. He chewed the inside of his bottom lip, thinking. 

“There would be a test, but I have no doubts that with your skills and your resolve that you will make an important addition to my squad,” Bucciarati replied. 

Mista considered his lifestyle, and how he preferred to live an easy, carefree life. That had quickly been taken away from him, and because of this man, he could have a chance at freedom. He'd be indebted to Bucciarati for life, but if he was correct about the impression the man gave off then that wouldn't be a heavy cross to bear at all. He wasn't sure what Bucciarati meant by a test, but figured it wouldn't be an essay or multiple choice. Mista considered the fact that he was only seventeen, and would be left out of the world stuck in prison. At the very least, it would be an adventure. “Would I… get paid?” Mista asked, sounding interested. 

Bucciarati chuckled openly at that, and his laughter was like bells to Mista’s ears, joyous and genuine. “Anything you could want can be obtained, and yes, a cut of the cash from any job we do. We take care of our neighborhoods, and have pride in our reputation. The police have less of a moral code than even the lowest gangster! At least we don’t get civilians involved in our work.” Bucciarati spoke with some hidden venom. He obviously felt a certain way about gang members who didn't follow the unwritten rules.  Mista believed him. He knew the organization committed crimes, obviously, but it was rarely against working-class people, and mostly about controlling property, gambling, and contraband coming in and out of the country. Mista moved the gun to his left hand so he could offer his right to shake. Bucciarati clasped his hand and gave it a firm shake, nodding his head approvingly. 

When they let go, Mista realized he still had the pistol and tried to give it back. 

“Keep it,” Bucciarati said, as he went to remove his weird zippers from the stone wall. They disappeared as quickly as they had come, and Bucciarati began to make his way back down the hallway towards the exit. 

Mista grinning, tucked the pistol into the back of his leather pants and went to go sit back on the bench and think about the encounter and what it meant for his future. He heard the man call out once more to him.

“Arrivederci, Mista! I’ll be in touch soon.”

**Author's Note:**

> So I don't really have a proper name for these, and I might actually move or link my other fic, Diamonds Shattered, to join this batch of thoughts. 
> 
> The whole gang is so important to me, and I just need a place to express all these horrible FEELINGS.
> 
> Thoughts/comments/questions are always appreciated. Thanks for reading, y'all.


End file.
